Two Men on a Beach
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: The perfect end to an imperfect day...


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Thanks, Owl, for betaing on a holiday and in the face of server issues.

**Author's Note:** In the relentless tradition of "Two Men in a Boat, Truck, Car, Bar, and Cemetery", and with a backward look to a story I posted exactly one year ago called "Gull's Way", here's—

**Two Men on a Beach**

by L.M. Lewis

"Nice sunset," Hardcastle said, checking his watch. "And right on schedule."

Mark snorted. "Usually is . . . Whaddya think," he looked around at the clusters of people settling in on lawn chairs and blankets, "we need any more sodas? I've got time to make a run up to the house before it starts."

"Nah—everybody's set." He squinted a little harder in the direction of the first twinkle of lights across the bay in Santa Monica. He only examined McCormick surreptitiously from the side. "You're better now?

He thought he saw the younger man swallow once, hard. Then there was an equivocal, "Yeah, sure. Sheesh, I only had a couple of pieces. Poor Teddy—he had _five_. Said it was the best watermelon he'd ever eaten."

"I'll bet."

"Well, you couldn't expect him to taste anything wrong with it after two bowls of your firecracker chili. Frank finally helped me get him up to the gatehouse."

"He's okay?" the judge asked warily, by which he meant: 'He's not going to puke on the carpet?'

"Oh, yeah," Mark nodded, having obviously heard both questions. "I gave him a basin and some towels, just in case."

Hardcastle shook his head slowly. "200-proof fruit. Those girls are a little goofy."

"They're a _lot_ goofy," Mark corrected, with a hint of a smile.

"Yeah, so why are you dating 'em?"

Mark turned his head and managed to look slightly shocked. "Not _both _of them. I'm seeing Tiffany. Tawny just hangs around a lot."

Hardcastle furrowed his brow and tugged on one ear. "Tiffany, huh? Which one is she?"

Mark stood there for a moment, appearing to examine the infinite beauty of the ocean. After a long and thoughtful pause, he finally voiced a bit of circular reasoning. "She's, um, the one I'm dating."

"Twins," the judge said, equally thoughtful. "They share things, you know—clothes, stuff like that."

"Probably—the same size and all," Mark said, now fairly serene. "Same tastes."

"Everclear in the watermelon." Hardcastle shook his head again. "Those girls are a handful."

"Several," Mark added cheerfully. "Hey, look, there's the first one." He pointed out to the east and Santa Monica.

The beach-dwellers gave up a collective "Ooh," at the scintillating flower of light in the sky, strangely divorced from any sound. The noise followed a few moments later, stripped of its sharper tones, a mere muted echo. From there the show continued, with variations in color and pattern, and the same out-of-sync sounds eventually blending into a low rolling rumble that echoed off the hills around Santa Monica Bay.

"You're right," Mark said in hushed tones still audible above that, "this is a great place to watch them from."

"Been coming down here for years—nice to get some friends together . . ."

The judge rocked back on his heels a little, still studying the patterns of light and lost in memories of holidays past. Then he jerked slightly, suddenly aware of what he'd said.

"I mean," he started hesitantly, and then paused again.

Mark kept his eyes on the fireworks.

"Well," said Hardcastle after a moment, "you know what I mean."

"Um-hmm." Mark looked a little abstracted by memories of his own. "I think," he halted and cleared his throat then finally went ahead, "this is the best Fourth of July I can remember."

"It's okay," Hardcastle said more temperately. "The watermelon coulda used a warning label though."

"You're never gonna let me live that down, huh?"

The judge just smiled.

00000

Eventually the big finale glittered in the eastern sky, accompanied by oohs and aahs from the watchers on Seagull Beach. The silent darkness that followed was interrupted by an occasional amateur effort from one of the neighborhood kids, too keyed up to head inside just yet.

Hardcastle's guests were mostly not so hearty and some of them even had work commitments for the following day. Mark listened to them folding up their chairs and bidding each other and their host 'good-night'. A steady stream of folks were now trudging up the path to the cliff-side steps.

He was occupied with sorting out the serving equipment and reducing the trash into the most compact and least awkward bundles possible. He'd already turned down offers of help from a couple of the judge's younger acquaintances—none of whom were as young or able to fetch and carry as he was.

It wasn't long before he had the beach to himself, with Hardcastle having headed back up to see the company off. Mark finished tucking the last stray napkin into the third trash bag and surveyed his progress. Two trips at most, he figured. There weren't many leftovers—even the watermelon had been reduced to mere rind.

He smiled. Things had gotten a bit raucous as some of the unsuspecting guests had gone back for seconds and thirds in the mid-afternoon heat. "Sober as a judge" lost its meaning for a couple of hours late that day. Teddy's tolerance had been surprisingly low—but then he was already a little goofy.

Mark cocked an eye up toward the cliff's edge and the estate. The judge hadn't voiced any complaints about Teddy crashing in the gatehouse, or insisted that Mark should call a cab for him once he was together enough to navigate. In fact, aside from a few good-natured gibes once the source of the problem had been identified, Hardcastle hadn't made an issue of it at all. It'd been Mark who'd hustled the twins up and out. He'd called them a cab, not being in good enough shape to drive them himself.

All the rest of it—the odd looks from some of the older judges, the joking remarks from a couple of cops—Hardcastle had taken in stride. Mark didn't think he'd even admitted to anyone that he hadn't been in on the idea of spiking the dessert.

It was weirdly unsettling, but somehow completely natural.

Now that the party was over, and he'd had a chance to think about what had happened, the explanation became patently obvious. With all the plots they'd engineered and executed together in the past nine months—rigging a horse race, scamming mobsters, and infiltrating everything from a college football team to a murderous dating service—one more adulterated watermelon added to the mix barely weighed in the scales.

He smiled. He thought maybe he appreciated that unspoken back-up even more than the judge's accidentally-voiced admission of friendship. It wasn't as if he needed to hear it in so many words. The actions spoke loudly enough.

He bent over and picked up two of the bags. He thought maybe he'd be giving Tiffany up. He'd been wondering why she sometimes couldn't remember things he'd mentioned to her. A watermelon problem, perhaps. Or—he frowned in suspicion—maybe those two really did share more than their lipstick.

**Author's Postscript: **Thanks to all the authors who lent their efforts to our big push to get 600 stories up. Congrats to you all and mission accomplished!

As to the legendary fireworks display off Santa Monica Pier, alas it is no more. The last one took place about 20 years ago. This year there are two Malibu displays scheduled with one of them being staged from a barge off Malibu Colony (i.e. just west of Gull's Way). The nonexistent Seagull Beach would be the perfect vantage point for it.


End file.
